


Prompt number 5. Or the one time Natasha Romanoff gets jealous, instead of Clint

by Nats_North_by_North



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Barton loves this more than anything, Drabble, F/M, Natasha Romanoff gets a little jealous from time to time, Paris (City), Romance, S.H.I.E.L.D Op, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nats_North_by_North/pseuds/Nats_North_by_North
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff explores being confronted with jealousy. Barton knows the feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt number 5. Or the one time Natasha Romanoff gets jealous, instead of Clint

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine was kind enough to ask me to write this prompt for them, which lead to this little mess of a drabble with just enough feels to keep you wanting more. I hope you enjoy it.

It is not the first time that she fastens her fingers along the slender stem of her flûte à champagne, more vice than lady like. Thirty minutes ago, she'd lost her partner in the vast sea of elegantly clothed bodies, humming and moving along to a modern, beat beats beat kind of version of concerto for strings by Vivaldi on the shocking note of f minor.

In her usual manner, dressed in hues of observant red, lusciously placed at the bar, nursing a half empty drink- needy and naughty, the ever present image of every man's wet dream, Natasha would await action like a godsend. She would, as instructed, wind the mark around her young ankles like soft, velvet ribbon until the image of her tripping had him wound up enough to give in to her old-slav charm.  
More times than not, the succeeding and exceeding stemmed from her side, more so than Clint's, who with his steady six, had morphed into her second shadow. She would ransack, he picked up the pieces of her she left behind.

-and they, in the most amicable way possible, would put each other back together again once the job was done.

Yet tonight, as she peered over the lipstick stained, almost veneer thin rim of her conical glass, it was not her expertise that was in need of using. The besoin of this swelteringly hot Parisian soirée lay alone in the capable hands of Clint Barton, who had done a /fantastic/ job at romancing the young blonde with the velvetine red lips, and a gold chiffon laced bodice, sitting tight upon her slender hanches de dieu, which bore a melted, semi-sunrise auburn trajectory of a frosted gold skirt that fell in Spanish ruffles along the length of her legs.  
His habitual grin had been exchanged for an expression far less amicable over the course of the conversation, and bordered there, where the corners of his lips greeted the beginning of his cheeks, into an upturned sunrise.

She spends the rest of her sweaty night imagining ways to cut this exact form into his side.

Men, came and went, women, eyeing her backless number of a dress in friendly French envy even offer to buy her another drink. The russet Russian declines, favours the sweet tinted glass of champagne over any fresh beverage that might come her way. The glass had been bought for her, by the man now making his way towards her. His lips, still faintly smeared with the ruby colour of the femme d'oré they had come for tonight.

"Got what we were looking for." Innocent paroles. He reaches for her glass, making brief, deliberate contact with her thumb and index finger before finishing off the lukewarm dregs of the bitter beverage. She allows a first, derogatory smile to foster upon her predator lips, which much like his, are coloured in pigment. "I have the faintest feeling we weren't quite looking for the same thing." European whispers convey; she, half amused, half, intoxicated on feelings of injustice wets the pad of her thumb before dragging it across the right corner of his lip to remove the golden blonde's mark of approval. "Cute."

Clint grunts, following the motion of her lips with icicle eyes.  
"Wait a minute-" a pause then; in his usual, Iowan manner. "-are you jealous."

"Hardly. You're a waste of lipstick."

By now he's stepped into her personal space, fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist like it's some arrow head. Each, scrutinizing touch sends a plethora of shockwaves up her spine. "You know." He begins, having positioned himself between the curve of her thigh and the bar. "I'm kinda having trouble buyin' that off ya."  
"That, is /not/ my problem." Quick fingers, still covered in red recovered from his brash tiers climb along the nape of his neck, allowing the pads of each digit to follow along his hairline, until she reaches the spot where she had sucked a nice, red imperfection upon his skin.

"Not your problem, mhm?"

"Not one bit, Barton."


End file.
